


Flowers

by Brigdh



Category: Yami No Matsuei
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Childhood, Community: fuda_100, Drabble Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigdh/pseuds/Brigdh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three linked drabbles, about the childhoods of Hisoka, Muraki, and Tsuzuki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers

Once a year, on the same day, Hisoka's father gathered flowers. Hisoka had watched once while he selected a dark chrysanthemum from their immaculate garden. He was already holding too many in his other hand, and the blossoms jostled each other, scattering slender petals across the grass like tears.

Hisoka knew the explanation, and he didn't mind the flowers or the incense or the smothering grief. His sister had been first, after all. But Nagare loved her in death, thought of her only with a cherishing fondness and regret, and even now Hisoka is jealous enough to hate them both.

***

The flowers were always impeccable; the brightest, loveliest curiosities that money could buy. New ones came every day. In her rooms, nothing was flawed, nothing ever wilted or aged.

Kazutaka's mother stroked today's plant, lifting its outsized blossom on a single finger. It was an orchid, scarlet center framed by the pure, waxen white of the petals. "Perfect," she said. "Beautiful enough to forget it's a parasite." It spilled from her hand, bouncing once in a knowing, secret nod to Kazutaka, and the heavy flower snapped off.

She'd smashed most of the vases before the servants managed to stop her.

***

Every plant had its own secret. Ruka knew them all, and she told them like fairy tales to Asato.

This one grew tubers deep underground, and this one had fruit in the fall, and that one's leaves could be dried and used for seasoning. He listened about the feathery softness of bottlebrush, the drooping, two-shaded leaves of magnolia, the tiny buds of baby's breath that wreathed their stalks like clinging mist.

She was the wild rose, pretty and soft, that made a tea for headaches and sad days. She called him chamomile then, sweet as apples.

He misses her still.


End file.
